


Three

by AwHaleNaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek POV, Dialogue Heavy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7042381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwHaleNaw/pseuds/AwHaleNaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek stares at Stiles, incredulous at what he's just heard. </p><p>It's always the same damn thing. Stiles' obsession with numbers. What does a number matter? What is that supposed to prove about him? Derek is who he is. Numbers and statistics aren’t going to change anything. Humans and their damn numbers, as if that'll solve everything. Everything is a number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three

 

 

Tuesday night, 1:34 a.m.

 

An hour before, Derek raked razor sharp claws across the jugular of a crazed werewolf.

 

His shirt is covered with dark blood. It’s crusty and sticky under his nails. His hair is dripping with red. All of the nineteen cuts and slashes inflicted on his body are healing slowly. The fractured rib – the fifth one from the bottom on his left side – is slowly knitting itself back into one healthy bone. If he concentrates, he can actually hear the skin and bone moving. He hears blood roaring through his veins. It's a bloody monsoon. It’s giving him a headache.

 

It takes time. Derek is tired. He sits down on the desk chair in Stiles’ bedroom.

 

Stiles is seated on his own bed. There’s no blood on his hands. They’ve stopped shaking. The baseball bat lies on the floor. No blood on the metal. He looks haggard. It’s like death itself came by and borrowed his face. The harsh desk light makes him seem ghostly, so Derek opts to just not look at him. Out of sight –no, always in mind.

 

Stiles opens his mouth a few times. Snaps it shut resolutely.

 

After a few minutes, during which Derek has kept his eyes closed, Stiles grounds out, 'Was it necessary to kill him? Didn’t we say we were going to try and convince him to leave, talk to him? Or take him in? We’ve got the wolfbane bars covered now. I thought we'd agreed.'

 

Derek doesn’t tell him that had never been the plan to begin with.

 

Instead, he tries to explain. ‘Your human laws don’t work,’ Derek says as if talking to a five-year-old. Wolfbane bars are nowhere near enough. If a werewolf wants out, they’ll get out. Corner an animal, and you know the rest. ‘Wolves can’t be reasoned with. They’re more vicious than humans and your jail cells aren’t going to—’

 

‘Right, right,’ Stiles nods, hardly listening. ‘So if I take gun, or a knife, and gut you or shoot you, and thereby kill you, that makes me less dangerous, less vicious?’

 

He lifts his head from where it had been hanging. A bruise is forming on Stiles' cheek. Blood.

 

‘Or what about a hunter with a collection of serrated knives and rare poisons, and a preference for torture? Or, simply, what about a guy who packs more muscle than three of me combined, who, maybe, is about as strong as one of you? Should he be treated differently than me? Should he be judged and punished differently?’

 

Stiles sighs deeply, and suddenly bursts out, ‘Your logic is _shit_! People and werewolves are still responsible for their actions. And whether you like it or not, we all live in the same space, and we have to follow the same rules. … Feral wolves, hell, the alpha pack, they’re anomalies, just like human murderers. It’s not actually the norm. So why should they be punished differently?’

 

It’s so late. How can there be so much energy left in him? His rib is only halfway healed.

 

‘Because they’re more dangerous,’ Derek replies.

 

‘Than humans? _What_!’ Stiles spreads his arms wide, as if to encompass the world. ‘Humans are pretty fucked up, if you haven’t noticed. Ever opened a history book? Or just watched the news? Where the hell is the difference?’

 

‘A werewolf on average is much stronger and more da—,’

 

‘Not this again,' he groans. 'I’ve heard this a million times. Is the average werewolf really as bloodthirsty as you make them out to be? In case it isn’t obvious to you, you’ve just got shitty luck. You are surrounded by shit. You’re like magic unicorn candy for the cuckoo crazy.’

 

Magic unicorn candy? Derek strains his jaw. ‘Why do you always trivialize this? You clearly don’t understand the difference between human and wolf.’

 

Stiles snorts. ‘Yeah, but you’re not animals. You are not wolves.’

 

‘You don’t understand, that, _yes_ we are.’

 

‘ _No_ , you’re not. You are human. You only got a little more lupine DNA. Same diff.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘I know plenty of werewolves who aren’t vicious. Scott. Isaac. Boyd, for heaven’s sake. I knew your kid sister, before. None of them want to kill. In fact, they go out of their way not to.’ _Why can’t you_ , is implied.

 

Derek ignores the electric current shooting through his chest at his sister’s mention. He shakes his head. ‘You don’t understand at all.’

 

After a loaded pause, during which the rain starts to beat against the window with loud splatters, Stiles leans back on his bed and says, ‘You know. I asked Deaton about that once, a year ago, give or take. About how much per cent of wolf there’s in your DNA. Do you even know?’

 

‘Why would that matter?’

 

It’s yet again something Stiles doesn’t understand. What does it matter? He is who he is. Numbers and statistics aren’t going to change anything. Humans and their damn numbers. Everything is numbers for them.

 

‘Three’, Stiles declares victoriously, with an almost incredulous grin on his face. He holds three fingers up. ‘That’s all. _Three_. And wise-ass Deaton was really informative for once, without any mysterious mumbo jumbo bullshit.’

 

Derek can tell Stiles is about to launch into one of his excited methodical rants where he mostly loses track of the fact that he’s actually talking to someone.

 

‘So there’s elevated body temperature, duh. About three degrees higher, which would make us sick. Then you’ve got a bit more speed, a bit more strength. Better hearing, sense of smell, to a certain degree. Not as good as an actual wolf, but enough to make a difference. Interestingly you tend to view moving objects a hell of a lot…’ And he’s off. Derek watches his mouth move. ‘… speedy tissue repair, the rate of which is about seven times as quick as human, and much faster than a regular canis lupus. Some corporeal mutations that you can control by your own will. But that’s just three per cent.’ Suddenly he swivels from where he’d been pacing and points at Derek. ‘How can you even say you’re not human! Three per cent! That's nothing!’

 

Derek stares at him as if he’s lost his mind. Does he not hear himself speaking? Is his exhaustion impairing his intellect?

 

He frowns and tries to reason, ‘Stiles, you’ll never understand unless you actually live it.’

 

‘Ugh, what a bogus argument. You’ve never experienced it, so don’t talk about it. You’re such an exclusivist. And don’t _Stiles_ me like I’m some kid. Fuck.’ Stiles throws the piece of lint he’s been fiddling with to the floor. It doesn’t seem to give him the satisfaction he’d hoped for. ‘By the way, how would you know that humans are less bloodthirsty than you? Aren’t we the cruellest animal of all? Have you ever been a human, one hundred per cent?’

 

Derek’s eyes widen. He is starting to lose his patience. There are some serious gaps in Stiles’ argument. It’s still raining. If he leaves now, he’ll be drenched before taking ten steps. At least the blood’ll wash away.

 

‘Yeah, didn’t think so, big guy. Humans are shit, too, I can guarantee you that. Doesn’t mean we get to pick and choose who we kill.’ Stiles' voice is wavering.

 

Derek huffs. ‘Man of the law?’

 

‘Well, yeah. Born and raised, baby. I owe that to my pops.’ Stiles grimaces at what he just said. False bravado. 

 

Derek shakes the word off. ‘Besides, do you realize there's a slight hitch in your argument? _A human, one hundred per cent_. By your logic, then, I’m not human.’

 

Stiles groans and kicks against the foot of his bed. ‘Jesus Christ, Derek, you know what I mean.’

 

‘Right.’

 

‘Oh, come _on_. You gotta stop seeing everything so black and white. Just because you’re not one hundred per cent human doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be labelled as human.’

 

‘Yes, though, that _is_ literally what it means. Werewolves are a different species.’

 

‘But not _that_ different, that’s my whole point! You’re gonna let three per cent rule your life?’

 

Derek pounds his fist against the dresser next to the desk and yells, ‘Are you serious right now? They _do_ rule my life, _that_ is the actual point! You think you can just say something and it’ll be true? That’s what _humans_ like to think and do, but werewolves are—’ Derek sighs and cuts himself off. They’re talking in circles. Nothing’s making sense to him anymore.

 

There is an actual dent in the dresser. He’s got a splinter stuck underneath skin that’s already healing. Adrenaline will do that. He'll have to reopen the skin to get the splinter out. ‘You're not making any sense. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’

 

Stiles immediately cuts in, ‘How unsurprising. Well, tough shit, because I do.’ Stiles always wants to talk. Never actually listens.

 

When Derek moves for the door, Stiles jumps up and barricades the way.

 

‘Of course,’ Derek mutters. ‘Move.’

 

‘No.’

 

‘ _Move_.’ Fangs elongate and his eyes burn red. It’s a completely see-through scaring tactic. Stiles is immune. Has been for a long time.

 

‘No.

 

‘Stiles,’ he warns. It's such an empty threat.

 

Nothing happens. Stiles just looks him dead in the eye, angry as hell. Derek’s close enough to really smell him. Everything.

 

He backs away. ‘Goddamnit. You’re insufferable. Why can’t you stay out of it?’

 

Stiles loosens his cramped hands and steps forward, away from the threshold, seeming relieved.

 

‘Because…,’ he starts off slowly. ‘Because it bothers me.’ It worries him. ‘It _bothers_ me that you’re so fucking flippant about killing someone. How can I not be? Oh, they crossed me, well I guess the only thing left for me to do is to kill’em. No problemo. Hey, let’s get an early breakfast while I’m out anyways!’ He bites his lips and lifts his shoulders dramatically.

 

Derek is shaking with frustration. The rain looks attractive right now. ‘Yes, Stiles, problem solved,’ he mocks. ‘For being the smartest out of the bunch you’re a real blind idiot. If I don’t kill them, they kill me first. That’s the way this works. Grow up.’ He falters momentarily and thinks back to the panicked shriek the wolf had let out right before Derek had slit his throat. Oh, god.

 

Stiles flails his arms and yells, ‘That doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me! That doesn't mean it shouldn't bother you! It’s _murder_ , Derek, taking an actual life. Snap, and it’s gone. I joke about it, yeah, yeah, I know, but, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s killing someone. Actually killing someone to _death_ ,’ he enunciates, ‘How doesn’t that—,”

 

‘How many people have _you_ lost to werewolves, huh? How many?’ He takes two steps forwards and spits the words in Stiles’ face, ‘Ten, that’s how many I’ve lost because of what we are, what I am. Not who, but what. Because of that three percent. Ten people. And it doesn’t stop. It never stops. You need to realize that just because you want something, it doesn’t mean it’ll happen. It doesn’t work.’

 

For a moment Stiles looks stricken, as if he’d momentarily forgotten Derek’s past, exercising selective ignorance he's so fond of. The image of Derek’s mother flits into in his mind. His mother. His mother. My mother. Mom. My—

 

‘Yeah, exactly. So don’t tell me that that we’re the same. We are not the same. And it's not enough, your useless little human laws.’ God, he's about to vomit. He remembers the thud of that wolf falling to the ground in a broken heap. 

 

They’re silent for a while.

 

Stiles starts to mumble, then grows self-assured. ‘You’re right. The law doesn’t always work. I can … easily admit that. But … just playing executioner yourself and deciding who gets to live or die, that isn’t, it’s not working, either. That’s just chaos inviting more chaos. You’ll … You’re throwing your humanity aside if you behave like this. And then you’ll …’ Die.

 

Derek almost laughs. He’s about to crack. ‘I was never human to begin with.’

 

‘Oh, bullshit.’

 

‘Stiles.’

 

‘ _What_ , Derek? What? You gonna tell me you’re an animal again? How many times do I have to hear that? I _do_ listen to you, despite what you may think, and you’re always singing the same damn tune! You’ve got only your instincts? You don’t feel anything else? You don’t talk anymore? You don’t think? You’re nothing more than a barrel of instinct and rage? That’s it? That’s all? You don’t feel grief, you don’t hope, you don’t _want_?’ he’s reverted back to yelling.

 

There's something searching in his eyes. Whatever Derek does, it'll tip the scale. Up or down.

 

So, naturally, Derek falls silent. None of it is wrong.

 

‘Yeah, you don’t _want_?’ Stiles challenges. ‘Cos if you were an animal, our little problem wouldn’t be a problem. You’d just take what you want, and be done with it. Hell, if I were an animal I would too. Feel no hesitance, no guilt after, either. Wouldn’t think about it twice. But you don’t do it. Of course you don’t. You never would. Because you’ve got a conscience, and a pretty hefty one at that. You want me—’

 

‘Stiles,’ he almost begs.

 

‘—no, no, really, let me speak. You want me, right? But you don’t do anything about it. Do you torture yourself over it? Think about it constantly, but never act on it? You reign those instincts in, do ya? Like a real _human_ being, big guy.’ He’s getting up from his bed and Derek knows where this is going.

 

‘Stop.’ He holds his bloodied hand out and Stiles ignores it. Stiles is asking too many questions. And both of them know the answers, anyways.

 

‘Or what? You’ll push me into a wall? Growl at me some more? Ah, the good old golden days! You know I bruised my head that time you slammed into me real hard? Oh, yeah, big ass bump right here,’ he says pointing at his head. He takes one of Derek’s hands and puts it on his head. Nothing’s there anymore, of course. He’s got a dangerous glint in his eye.

 

‘I see how you look at me, I notice that, you know, as _the smartest of the bunch_. And the funny thing, hilarious, really, is you don’t even look at me like you wanna climb me like a tree. Nah, you just look at me. Often. And never do anything about it. You’re right, Derek, you’re a real beast.’

 

If Derek is flippant about killing –which is faked– then Stiles is flippant about this –it’s faked, too.

 

They both know how extremely human Derek is. More so than Stiles. There’s more grief, there’s more sorrow and feeling, more thought, more rage. There's too much of everything. 

 

Derek remains silent. Turns his head away. He doesn’t want to deal with Stiles.

 

‘And _now_ you can’t even look at me. How ironic is that?’

 

Miraculously, Stiles chooses to shut up. He plops back down on his bed and waits. Doesn’t mind Derek at all, just focuses on calming his heart rate. Derek counts every unsteady beat, just so he has something mindless to keep him occupied.

 

Minutes pass.

 

Derek decides he should leave. ‘We’re never going to agree.’

 

‘Huh?’ Stiles lifts his head up. He looks exhausted. ‘On what?’

 

He takes a deep breath. ‘On whether or not humans and animals ought to be punished in the same manner. You don’t understand that we are a different species, and we live differently. Your laws aren’t made for us. Just as ours aren’t made for you.’

 

‘So eloquent for an animal. An admirable orator,’ he replies, and it’s not even vindictive. 

 

‘Shut up, Stiles,’ Derek bites out. ‘Just shut up. This isn’t funny.’

 

Derek walks out the door and goes down the stairs, into the hallway and stops near the door. Stiles is behind him. They pause. 'I can't agree to disagree,' Stiles mumbles.

 

The door is opened and Derek steps out. Stiles follows. Derek turns around.

 

The kiss is barely there.

 

‘I don’t want to do this,’ Derek says as he pulls away. ‘Why do we always do this at times like these? It’s not—,’

 

Stiles rolls his eyes and pinches Derek’s arm as hard as he can. ‘Maybe the question is why do _you_ always do this at times like these? Every time you go through some meltdown?’

 

Derek doesn’t correct him. It’s Stiles who’s crumbling this time.

 

Stiles continues, ‘I’m starting to associate this with fighting. God knows that any time I try to kiss you when we’re not about to bawl our eyes out, you back away as if I’m vermin stuck to you shoe.' He waits for a contradiction. Derek merely looks sad. 'Get your shit together, Derek. I’m not waiting for you.’

 

The hand he hadn’t noticed interwoven with his lets go. Stiles says goodnight, dismissive and urgent.

 

Then he’s gone.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m supposed to be working. Instead I’m thinking about punishment and laws, and where werewolves would fit in. 
> 
> Doesn’t it fuck with your mind, seeing that many people be killed? Many fics just kind of push that aside. It's kind of a given. But of course, no, it's really not.


End file.
